


Draco Doesn't Think of Anyone

by newtypeshadow



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Legilimency, M/M, Occlumency, Psychological Trauma, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-09-30
Updated: 2004-09-30
Packaged: 2018-09-01 06:12:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8612356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newtypeshadow/pseuds/newtypeshadow
Summary: Draco doesn't think of anyone.





	

At first Draco doesn't think of anything. He doesn't need to—he is at an age where a glance or the pursing of lips on a particularly determined face is enough to trip him up and bring a flush to his cheeks.

* * *

Then Draco doesn't think of anyone because he is afraid of what it means. Wizards think of witches when they want to get off. Wizards think of breasts and curves when they run their hands down their own hard angles and straight lines. They think of softness and pressing and fitting together, keys into locks and the grip of puzzle pieces; not symmetry and unyielding strength and matching part for part and teeth for teeth. Wizard boys think of moist heat, not slicked tightness. Their backs may arch the same way, their hips might also buck into tight-fisted hands, but those other wizard boys' fantasies are silently supported by wizard-kind. Draco's fantasies are not, and he feels bitter as he comes.

* * *

Then Draco doesn't think of anyone because he is Draco  _Malfoy_ , last of  _The_  Malfoys, and has a Duty to the Family to marry and produce heirs. It is best not to think about what he can never have.

After all, father would be livid. And mother...mother would be so disappointed...

He is getting better at not thinking, not wishing, not dreaming. It is easier than burning in the cruel light of hope. Draco still complains often, throws fits and speaks loudly of what he wants. About the important things though—love, self, the future—Draco says nothing.

He hides his deepest desires from even himself.

* * *

Then Draco closes his eyes and thinks of nothing, more actively nothing than ever before, because it isn't fair to see large green eyes while his own lips are pulled back in a snarl of pleasure. It isn't fair to want those hands on his bucking hips and those lips around his cock. It isn't fair for Draco to want to dig his fingers into those unruly curls so he can press down until the scar is nestled in the blonde thatch between his legs; pull up, swallow those mewls before the body over him freezes-and lets go.

* * *

When his father goes to Azkaban, Draco  _can't_  think of anything. He lusts for no one, wants nothing but solitude, silence. He is cold. He is enraged.

* * *

Draco is too frightened to think or dream after the Dark Lord appears in the Manor. The Dark wizard is a Legilimens, and though Draco hadn't really believed it, one look in those blood red eyes and he feels himself being split open and dissected.

Like being held down and ripped apart, the smirk brushing his ear telling him to shut up and take it, because being powerless didn't mean one can act common. Draco struggles to hide his discomfort. When the Dark Lord's eyes leave his face his father gives him the proudest look Draco has ever seen on the man. It is subtle and arrogant, but Lucius Malfoy is proud.

Draco feels sick. He doesn't think of Potter for the rest of the summer.

* * *

After Professor Snape pulls him aside at the start of term, Draco still doesn't think when his hand slides over his cock or down to his balls, feeling them tighten. He is only beginning to grasp Occulumency and his teacher's mind still invades Draco's too often for his liking. When he gets better, Draco promises himself, he can think of other things. He can think of bodies instead of lips, of eyes and hair instead of collarbones. He can slide his wand back to that little hole he's been avoiding, that dark space he's heard  _things_  about, and press in, press it in until his body wants to break apart.

* * *

Draco doesn't think of anything when he spies on his father and father's friends. He doesn't think anything at all when the Dark Lord's head appears through the fireplace, or in one of the mirrors, or out of his closet before he remembers there was a boggart there, and wouldn't the Dark Lord look ridiculous as a Gryffindor cheering for the home team during a match?

He never knows when someone might be watching—him or his thoughts—and he has never quite believed his Occulumency could stand up against the tidal of Voldemort's power and mind. So Draco sees eyes everywhere, even in his head, and resolutely thinks of darkness, of flying, breezes and snitches that hit all the right places, and then nothing.

* * *

When Potter  _literally_  invades his thoughts one afternoon after the last match of the year, Draco discovers that he has not been Professor Snape's only pupil. More importantly though, he finds that though his Occulumency is superb enough to hide even his  _subconscious_  thoughts, he's dreamed about the insufferable Gryffindork. If that isn't enough, he's done it often enough for Potter's mental presence to pull some of those dreams to the fore.

Draco's dreams are as cloaked as the rest of him. Lust spikes through Draco's body as he lies in his green and silver bed that night, consciously seeing behind his eyelids what made his sheets damp over summer, and sometimes in school; what made him wake some nights ill and shaking, though his hands were wet.

Potter writhing, hair sweat-curled around his face and at the nape of his neck, nipples peaked and dark against his golden skin, back arching impossibly as his mouth opens in a roaring scream—

 _Crucio_.

Potter spread wide and moaning below him Draco _—please—)_ , chest heaving, legs trembling because the sensation is so overwhelming it's—

Torture.

Potter's head dipping between Draco's legs, sensual smile on his face—

Knife in hand, waiting.

Draco's hands tied above his head and legs stretched far apart, Potter bending over him—

Wand pressed into Draco's throat, Unforgivable on his red lips.

There is Potter wet and drowning; skin dyed with his own blood; covered in bruises, lacerations; body uneven with broken bones. If Draco isn't killing him slowly, Potter is killing  _him_. The violence is brutal, the implications chilling, yet it is all so sensual even Draco must admit these aren't vengeance or anger manifest, but lust cunningly twisted to hide its shape.

His mind recoils.

His body reacts the same way it always has.

Later testing with a Pensieve reveals his numb summer was the start of it all. He wonders if the Dark Lord has seen any of these dreams, and the next night he steals a month's worth of Dreamless Sleep from Poppy's stores. Snape frowns at him from the Head Table the morning after, but never says a word.

Draco doesn't think to wonder why he won't just purge his memory.

* * *

When Voldemort is dead Draco must think of nothing, must hide his desire deeper than ever. The tribunal uses Veritaserum, even tried to use Pensieves, and Draco's most secret, darkest shame  _isn't_  that he was the one who defied orders, said the words that kept his father from Azkaban even as the green light took his life.

* * *

They have tried love letters (anyone could happen upon them!) and phone-sex (Draco doesn't like the tinny distortion), even fireside chat-sex (it's too bloody hot—he'd be too busy burning to enjoy it).

He eventually gives his lover the proper questions to ask, ones he couldn't possibly dodge, and administers the Veritaserum in his evening tea. Draco receives sympathy he doesn't want and support and understanding for his pains; he goes to sleep early in a huff.

* * *

The first night Draco consciously thinks of Harry, it is with a fear so profound and relief so deep that his body shakes and the most brilliant fantasy he can conjure up only makes him sick.

His lover holds his hair and strokes his back until the dry heaving stops. Draco collapses into a warm, naked chest and buries his head in a golden neck. He feels a racing pulse beat under his clammy nose, and jerks back to the toilet, imagining blood.

* * *

A tongue strokes his earlobe, a warm voice says it's alright, it's over. There's a pressure in his mind, trying to free him from the inside.

It doesn't work.

* * *

It takes almost a year before Draco can imagine Harry without fear. For months, Harry had to be in the room with him, sitting or lying next to him, touching his body in some way that made it separate from pure imagination. Harry enjoys supplying Draco with memories of the two of them tangled in each other, and of himself alone with his lover utterly focused on the body he's not touching. And then blind-folded and just listening, almost-seeing the changes in Harry's face as that voice describes actions with words or sex-sounds, and Draco's familiar mind subtly fills in the rest.

Although upset on his behalf and frustrated by every failure, Harry is pleased to help.

He's all too familiar with wanting a life one cannot have. He knows the terror that comes quick on the heels of elation when one is finally allowed to grasp it and keep it, unchallenged.


End file.
